


Bicycle Race

by Zetaori



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetaori/pseuds/Zetaori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a small, chubby, English boy in his living room, and little Arthur hates him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bicycle Race

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read/comment on LJ, you can find the story [here](http://zetaori.livejournal.com/13157.html).

One day, Arthur comes home from school to find a woman and a boy sitting in his living room. The woman is sobbing quietly, and his mother, who's on the sofa next to her, gives her a tissue and a sympathetic smile. The boy sits on a chair, picking at invisible threads on his pants, his feet dangling a few inches above the ground.

"Mom?" If Arthur's voice sounds a bit shaky, it's understandable. He's only eight years old, and he's never seen these people before.

"Oh, hello darling," his mother says, the plea in her voice lost in the noise of the little boy's world roaring in confusion around him.

She comes over to him, and her warm hands on his shoulder give him back his reality.

"Mom, who are they?" he croaks, not quite aware that they can hear him even though he's only speaking to his mother. He's not at all aware of how the boy's head drops even lower, as if he's trying to sink into himself and vanish.

She kneels in front of him, forcing his look down on her and away from the strange people.

"They are the Eames', Mrs. Eames and – "

"What are they doing here?" Arthur interrupts, momentarily forgetting about his father's strict rule to let people finish speaking.

"Arthur," his mother says warningly.

"Mom!" he screams back at her.

She takes a deep breath and pulls him into a tight hug. "They'll just stay for a while, that's all," she whispers into his ear. "We talk about this later, okay, darling?"

Arthur shakes her off. "I have homework to do."

He doesn't notice his mother flinching at the coldness in his voice. She forces out a smile. "Why don't you show him your room, hm? I bet you'll become great friends."

Arthur crosses his arms in front of his chest. He hates him.

\---

The boy is weird.

He's supposed to be a couple of years older than Arthur, but he's smaller, and somewhat chubby.

Every time he opens his mouth, what comes out sounds alien and arrogant.

Arthur tells everyone who's willing to listen that his hair is actually red and that he insists on getting called Eames, which is totally stupid because that's his last name.

Eames tries to explain it to him one day when they're hanging around, staring at the rain outside. He says he's been to a boarding school, and everyone calls each other with their last name. It's just the way it is, he says. You get used to it.

Arthur thinks of gray, uncomfortable school uniforms, of twenty boys sleeping in one room and hundreds of identical boys eating with the same, precise, trained movements. He shudders, but he still doesn't understand why he's supposed to call him Eames.

"But that's his last name," Arthur says later that day, cuddling close to his mother. She hasn't brought him to bed since he's turned six, but everything has changed in the last few days.

"Darling," she says and gives him a kiss on the forehead. "If he wants to be called Eames, then call him Eames."

"Why?"

"Just go to sleep. We talk about this later, okay?"

Arthur starts to get sick of this sentence.

\---

Arthur hates Eames.

Eames is sitting around in Arthur's room, staring at him while Arthur draws pictures of his family – father, mother, child.

Eames doesn't have to go to school. Arthur's mother strokes over his hair whenever she sees him. He never has to help washing the dishes.

Behind thick oaken doors, Arthur's father has long and adult conversations with Eames, who sits stock-still on the uncomfortable old chair and never stops nodding. When they come out, there's a heavy hand on Eames' tiny shoulder, and the words, "You're like a son to me" are hanging in the air.

Arthur hates Eames.

\---

One night, Arthur wakes up. He's had a bad dream, not quite a nightmare, and as always, he's able to recall every little detail. He always could, and he didn't know it was unusual until his mother got upset after he told her every single thing he remembered about the dreams he had that night. His father, however, had smiled down at him, a rare genuine smile that held a promise for something he doesn't quite understand.

Arthur doesn't know what time it is, but he's thirsty and he can hear voices downstairs.

When he hears his own name, he stops and cowers at the feet of the staircase.

His bare feet are getting cold, his thirst wells up and makes his throat dry, but he can't move.

It takes him a while to recognize Mrs. Eames' voice. He's still not used to it because she barely speaks. He thinks she's just as stupid as her son, and he wishes both of them far away.

"...as long as you want," his mother says.

"Thank you. We're very grateful." The next words are muffled. Then, "… worried about Arthur."

The voice of his mother is suddenly higher than usual, and very easy to understand. "He's a good boy. It's just difficult for him. He needs some time to get used to it."

Suddenly, Arthur feels very uncomfortable. He knows it's not polite to eavesdrop, but he doesn't do it on purpose, and also, he wants to know the truth his mother is so careful to shield from him.

And then, suddenly, it's there.

"I just can't believe he's gone!" Broken sounds break the silence of the night, and Arthur feels his heart jump up in his throat. He tries to swallow it down again, but it just pounds fast and hard.

He knows _being gone_ means _dead_ , because that's what the people on TV say when someone dies. There's always crying, and comforting, and people being in grief.

The sobbing stops long enough for Mrs. Eames to sigh, "Poor boy. He loved his daddy so much."

It doesn't take a genius to realize what's going on. Arthur climbs back the stairs, his thirst forgotten, and stops in front of the guest room in which Eames sleeps.

Tentatively, not sure if he's doing something forbidden, he pushes open the door. The room is dark, but he knows where all the furniture is, so he makes his way to the bed in total silence.

"Eames?" he whispers.

The silent shadow under the covers turns around.

"Yeah?"

"Are you sleeping?"

"No."

"Oh."

Arthur thinks it's terribly cold in this room, but maybe Eames is used to that, being from England and all.

"I'm sorry about your dad." The words tumble out of his mouth before he decides to say them.

There is a long pause. Arthur thinks he might have said something wrong, but he's sure that's exactly what one should say if someone dies. Except you shouldn't say _die_ , but _pass away_.

Then, the muffled voice. "Thanks."

Arthur hesitates a second, but then he returns to his own room.

A few seconds later, he comes back with a worn-out stuffed rabbit.

"That's Mr. Bunny," he says, not realizing Eames can't really see anything in the darkness. "He usually sleeps in my bed, but you can have him for tonight if you want."

"I'm a bit too old for that," Eames says, his voice quivering.

"Okay," Arthur says and feels very stupid.

"But thanks," Eames adds reluctantly.

"Okay," Arthur repeats. "Good night."

"Good night."

Arthur falls asleep, Mr. Bunny pressed close against his chest, his dreams weird and confusing.

\---

It takes about one week until Eames opens his mouth for more than polite little answers, but then, he barely closes it again.

He just keeps talking and talking, and every time Eames' lips form around those vowels that sound so wrong in Arthur's ears, Arthur wants to punch him.

One time, he does.

It's stupid, really, and even he knows that, but Eames makes him so angry, and then it just happens.

But he didn't expect Eames to hit back.

They are not old enough to do real damage with their blows, but it hurts, so bad and so good, and they just roll around on the floor, yelling, pulling hair, all awkward moves they've seen on TV, until both of their mothers rush in and pull them apart.

Arthur only starts to cry a few minutes later, when his mother checks him for injuries, fussing and shouting at the same time.

Eames stands in the corner, his eyes cast downward, while his mother just stares into the distance, but there's a tiny smile playing around the corner of his lips.

Hot tears start to well up in Arthur's eyes, and he's trying so hard to swallow them down, but they just flow over and burn angry streaks down his cheek.

His mother stops shouting and ushers both Eames and his mother out of the room.

"Darling," she says. "I think it is time we talked."

Arthur wipes away his tears and nods.

Arthur's mother sits down next to her son on the sofa and tells him, in a soft and steady voice, about the Eames'.

She tells him that Mr. Eames, Mrs. Eames and their little son have visited them before, and that little Arthur and Eames liked each other very much. Arthur wrinkles his nose and thinks that she's lying. She produces a tiny photo from somewhere with two smiling babies, one grabbing for the other's nose, but Arthur can't even tell which one he's supposed to be.

She also says that Mr. Eames and Arthur's father worked in the military together, on a secret operation. (Arthur smiles at that, because he's pretty sure he knows more about it than her. He's seen the gray little suitcase with the word _'prototype'_ engraved in the lid. He's seen his father stick something into his wrist and close his eyes, and he knows what it's about. Dreams.)

He stops smiling when he hears his mother say what he's already gathered, that Mr. Eames died (she says, "lost his life", though) under mysterious circumstances. He doesn't stop smiling because he's sad (why should he, it's not his dad), but because he's afraid she'll find out he's been eavesdropping. And also, because he's seen people on the TV be sad about deaths.

"Arthur," his mother says, and Arthur listens, because she only calls him by his name if something is very important.

"This is very important," she says. "Little Eames is very sad that he's lost his dad. You can't imagine what it feels like, thank God, but both he and his mother have gone through a lot, and they are here to get better."

"Uh-huh," Arthur says.

His mother ruffles his hair. "So just be a good boy, okay?"

"Yeah," Arthur says.

"He probably feels lonely. I'm sure he could use a friend," his mother whispers into his ear.

Arthur tightens and pushes her away. "I don't want to be his friend! We'll never be friends!" he shouts suddenly.

"You don't have to be his friend if you don't want to," his mother says quickly, smoothing his hair down soothingly, and forces a smile on her lips.

"We'll never be friends," Arthur repeats quietly, almost to himself.

\---

The dinner is awkward that evening. Arthur isn't hungry, and he picks at his food with the fork, shooting curious glances every time he feels unwatched.

He knows he's not supposed to play with his food.  
He knows he's not supposed to put his elbow on the table.  
He knows he's not supposed to stare.

His father eats in silence, looking at nothing but his plate. Arthur tries to guess if his mother told him about what happened earlier today, and if he'll be angry, or maybe a little proud. He can't tell, but then, he can never tell. His father is always just suits and order insignia and one slightly raised eyebrows.

Mrs. Eames hardly touches her food. Arthur has never paid attention to her before, but now that he knows what to look for, he sees dark shadows under her eyes, an inconspicuous tremor of her hands when she raises the fork to her mouth, and the casual, worried glances over to her son.

Arthur imagines his mother like that: a nervous shadow in someone else's house, sitting at the table with strangers and his father gone. It's a weird thought that makes his stomach clench, and he shoves away the plate.

He catches Eames staring at him, and quickly looks away.

\---

Eames is boring. He just sits around, his hands folded in his lap, and everyone just keeps on talking about how good his manners are, and how well he handles everything. Arthur remembers a time when people talked about his good manners.

He thinks that Eames doesn't do anything wrong because he never does anything. And that's when he has an idea.

Arthur's mother pulls him into a tight hug when he announces his friends want to ride their bicycles later today, and he wants to take Eames along.

He says it's because he doesn't want to give Eames any chance of going through his stuff when he's not around. His mother gives him a smile as if she knew, but she doesn't.

Eames is surprisingly quiet on their way to the place where they wanted to meet. Arthur, making sure to show off his own manners, has lent him his best bike, and Eames pushes it forward with determination.

Arthur has to admit he's surprised that Eames agreed to come. Apparently, he didn't know what he was getting himself into. He probably expected a nice slow Sunday ride. Or what his mother calls "get to know each other" when she actually means "becoming friends". Arthur is looking forward to the look on Eames' face when he zooms past him on the way down.

"Do you want to talk about your father?" Arthur says after a few minutes of thinking.

Eames' head snaps around. He lets go off the bike, which falls down with a loud clatter on the dirty path. Arthur watches him chew on his lips, as if he was trying to come up with something and at the same time biting it back.

After a few seconds that feel very uncomfortable and remind Arthur of this one movie he's seen where a man and a woman stare at each other over the kitchen table after something's happened he didn't quite understand, Eames picks up the bike again, and they continue their way up the hill.

"Who's coming, then?" Eames asks, as if nothing has happened.

Arthur swallows down a lump in his throat that's been there since his friends laughed at something Eames had said when they met him for the first time. Arthur didn't think it was that funny at all.

Arthur lists all the names, and Eames makes appreciative sounds at the back of his throat at every single one, even the ones Arthur is sure he's never met.

After that, they push their bikes in silence.

The wind blows cold in their direction, and Arthur pulls up his jacket to cover his ears. Eames doesn't seem to feel the cold at all.

This sucks, Arthur thinks. He can't really remember why he thought this would be a good idea in the first place. He really wants to turn back, but they're almost there now.

Eames is already a few yards ahead and waving towards the figures emerging from the other side of the hill. When Arthur arrives, they're already in an animated discussion about something, and Arthur's squeaked greeting gets carried away by the wind.

His hands tighten around the handlebars. He's the fastest of them all, and today, he'll prove it once more. He tosses away the bicycle helmet his mother has insisted on and climbs on the seat.

His bike is almost too big for him, but his mother has said he'll grow quickly, and now his toes nearly reach the ground already. Today, he can do anything.

"Come on!" he shouts, and this time heads turn. He watches their faces, assesses their strength and weaknesses, and he's sure he can win this. Maybe then Eames will stop with this stupid thing he's always doing. Pretending to be nice and everything.

He waits for everyone to get up. Eames rolls a bit towards him.

"Well, I didn't think you'd ride without your helmet."

And just when Arthur opens his mouth to reply something witty and sharp, Eames adds, with a broad smile on his face that shows all of his teeth, "Darling."

Arthur pushes off the ground with his feet and is already speeding down the hill before the others realize what's going on.

The ground flies away under the tire and the handlebar tugs and wobbles in his hands. He tightens his grip and blinks away some tears the wind has brought into his eyes.

His bottomless anger only increases with speed and pain. A quick glance over his shoulder shows that all his friends are so far back he barely can make out who they are, but Eames is just behind him and coming closer.

Arthur releases the tentative grip around the brakes completely and pedals faster. His legs are already heavy and sore, but there's just no way he will let Eames pass.

He's racing towards the end of the hill,  and the next part goes slightly up before the second, much steeper descent. He's sure he can leave Eames behind even before the last part, but then, as he shifts gears and loses his rhythm only for a few second, there's a red and white blur on his left and then, he can see Eames back, hunched over his own, very fast bike.

Arthur bends over his bike too, and catches up. They reach the peak at the same time, and Arthur uses his knowledge of the route to his advantage and utilizes all of his speed to get over the top and race down.

They go faster and faster, leaving everyone else behind, and suddenly it's just them and this feeling of flying, of zero gravity, of dreaming. When Arthur looks over, he can see Eames look back, and suddenly, there's a smile.

In the distance, there's the field they always use to mark the finish, and Eames seems to guess its function and doubles his efforts.

What he didn't expect was that Arthur knows very well how to fight dirty.

Arthur steers close towards him and tries to force him away from the road. Eames swerves to the right, but quickly regains control of his course.

"Fair play, darling," Eames shouts over the gush of wind, and Arthur just laughs at him, a high and strange sound in his own ears.

Eames steers closer to him and pushes out his elbows, obviously hoping for Arthur to bump into him, but Arthur can dodge away at the last second.

They're still going at a speed Arthur has never reached before, and he feels so good, so strong, invincible. And he wants to win.

There's a little shortcut towards the end, over gravel and sand, and he knows he shouldn't do it, he knows it's too dangerous, but he's sure that today, he can make it. He turns in the last second, but Eames is still following him when he looks back. He shouts insults over his shoulder, words he's just made up, and now it's Eames who's laughing, and Arthur finds himself laughing too.

Adrenaline floods his system as the whole frame of his back gets shaken over the gravel, the seat bumping so hard that he has to stand up. He pushes down the pedals with force now, fighting for every inch, the finish so close before him, only a few last yards.

He can hear Eames pant and swear right next to him, and he reaches out with a last, desperate attempt to get Eames off his tracks. This time he actually catches the sleeve of Eames' jacket with his hand and he pulls, and then there's this tiny rock on the ground that sends both of them flying through the air.

For a long second that feels like an eternity, he's enjoying the flight with dull, surprised wonder. The world fades away, turning upside down, whirling around him, and then he realizes he's going to crash, hard.

He yelps in surprise, and then in pain, still clutching the fabric of Eames' jacket between his fingers when they hit the ground, land hard on their sides and backs, and roll the few yards towards the finish line, stopping just before it.

They lie there, astonished and scared and confused, until Eames picks himself up and pulls Arthur with him.

Eames has a nasty bruise all over his cheek, and there's still a few tiny rocks sticking to the other side of his face. Arthur can't help but reach out and brush them away.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he registers pain in his wrist and lower back, but he's far more fascinated by the way Eames' nose is bleeding.

It's only when the others arrive that they're able to snap out of their shock. Someone of the smaller boys starts to cry when he sees them and runs off.

"Come on," Eames whispers in his ear when everybody's just staring at them. "Let's go home."

They leave the bikes where they've fallen down and make their silent and long way back.

Now Arthur notices a dull pain in his leg which feels like it's collided with the handlebar, but no matter how hard he tries to remember the impact, there's just Eames' smile, his voice roaring in his ears, and then blood everywhere and Eames' hand that helps him up.

"You know," Eames says, limping bravely next to him, "I didn't think you had it in you."

Arthur turns his head and looks at him. Then, after a few seconds, he looks back on the tracks.

"Thanks," he says.

They turn into their street.

"They're gonna be so mad," Arthur says suddenly, and Eames starts to laugh, and Arthur can't help but laugh with him.

They arrive like that on the front door, bleeding, bruised and dirty, laughing and laughing.

\---

Their mothers are really mad. Eames' mother has snapped out of her silence the second she's laid eyes on her battered son, and now they're shouting in stereo. The differences in pronunciation and vocabulary, especially in the very graphic expressions, aside, they are basically saying the same things over and over.

They were ushered into the living room as soon as their mothers were able to move again, and now they are standing on the expensive floor, shoulder by shoulder, Eames bleeding all over it with royal decency. They bow their heads in shame, keep their hands modestly crossed behind their back, and they try to keep a sorry expression on their faces, but they can't fight down the bubbles of laughter that form in their stomachs every time they remember what it felt like to leave the ground behind.

"What are we going to do with you two?" Arthur's mother sighs in despair, and behind their backs, Eames searches for Arthur's hand and clutches it tight.


End file.
